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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27222688">didn’t know better</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeilig/pseuds/skeilig'>skeilig</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>First Time, Frottage, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Getting Together, He's a nice guy, Jealous Eddie Kaspbrak, M/M, Mentioned Myra Kaspbrak, Poor Scott, Repression, Richie/OMC as a plot device, Roommates, he goes on a date with a woman but he's gay you know how it is, wet dick Eddie Kaspbrak</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:29:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,157</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27222688</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeilig/pseuds/skeilig</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Eddie could say, <i>Yeah, it wasn’t just an awkward blind date. I talked about you so much that she accused me of being in love with you.</i> Richie’d probably think that’s pretty funny, maybe even standup material, but the thought makes him seize up in anxiety, so he doesn’t say it. </p><p>Instead when he opens his mouth the words that come out are, “Who are you dating? Is she, like… famous?”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>452</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>didn’t know better</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By all accounts, Eddie is not ready to start dating again. He’s not even officially divorced yet, but the months-long process has been dragged out by a fight over the handful of AirBnB properties he and Myra owned and managed together. Or, well, Eddie owned them, if you want to get technical about it, and Myra managed them entirely on her own, decorating and cleaning and handling clients. It’s actually been something of a nightmare now that they’ve split—Myra wants to keep her cushy part-time gig but Eddie does not want to have any remaining tethers to her or to New York in general—but Eddie hasn’t found much sympathy among his friends. There’s apparently a line somewhere around ‘my soon-to-be ex-wife and I can’t agree on what to do with our four Manhattan apartments that we list on AirBnB for extra income’ beyond which complaining becomes distasteful. </p><p>Still, it <em>is</em> a nightmare. Eddie wants to sell the properties and be done with it. Any time he brings it up, Richie makes some glib comment implying that Eddie is personally responsible for gentrifying the Lower East Side, and even though he knows it’s a joke it always makes Eddie a little defensively angry. </p><p>Whatever. He’s going to sell the properties and then he won’t own anything of value, and the gentrification will continue with or without his contribution, thank you very much. There are a lot of forces at play when it comes to trends like that. </p><p>He lives in LA now, with Richie. (Richie owns a three-bedroom loft in the Arts District, by the way, so he’s not so innocent himself.) Eddie lives with him because when he left Myra he couldn’t bear to be alone and Richie was the first person he told (Richie knew he was going to leave her before he did, in fact, helped hype him up for it, even), and Richie extended the offer to visit for a while, if he needed an escape. Eddie took the out, gladly, and the week quickly grew into a few months as Eddie job-searched and opened an account with a local Credit Union when he got sick of paying ATM fees and otherwise put down roots. </p><p>The dating thing came up a few weeks ago when Richie left the apartment on a Friday evening and shyly told Eddie to not wait up. Eddie spent the rest of the evening trying and failing to watch movies by himself on the big leather couch in the living room, all the while extremely preoccupied by the knowledge that Richie was currently on a date. That he might be seeing someone, in an ongoing, serious way. That, whether it was casual or not, he was almost definitely going to get laid tonight, what with the ‘don’t wait up.’ Eddie made himself a little sick with nerves just from thinking about it, because here he was, almost-divorced and mostly-unemployed, living with his friend and certainly mucking with his love life, sex life, whatever. And Richie probably too polite (or maybe Eddie too pitiful) to say anything about it. What did he tell his date, anyway? Maybe apologized and said, ‘Sorry, we’ll have to go back to your place tonight, I have a long-term houseguest slash sort-of roommate who doesn’t pay rent.’</p><p>Not all of Eddie’s strong reaction could be explained by the embarrassment and awkwardness that came with cramping Richie’s style. He also was distinctly if confusingly jealous. He wrestled with this emotion longer, trying to tease out why his body reacted with quite a bit of <em>anger</em> at this news, face flashing hot, jaw tensing. Why did Richie going on a date make him curl up into a defensive prickly ball like a porcupine? </p><p>Well, Eddie was pretty raw about anything concerning romantic relationships at this point. A little bit ashamed that the longest one of his life had spectacularly failed; a lot ashamed that she had manipulated him into staying for longer than he ever would have wanted to. As much of a relief as it was to now have the distance, physically and emotionally, that he needed to see things clearly, it was also sharply painful to recognize <em>just</em> how unhappy he had always been. </p><p>So, yes, that must have been it. He was just understandably on-edge at the mention of romance or sex. Jealous that Richie got to have something simple and hopefully fulfilling while Eddie was still stuck untangling years’ worth of his own damaged emotional patterns. What should be a straightforward A to B had become a web of inexplicable responses.</p><p>He knew it was petty to resent Richie for this, especially since Richie had clearly done his best to not rub it in Eddie’s face—hadn’t even said it was a date, really, had just said he was going ‘out’ and not to wait up, but Eddie wasn’t born yesterday, he knows what that means—but still knowing why he felt resentful helped to calm him down. </p><p>Richie didn’t come home that night and Eddie felt angry and sick when he woke up to an empty apartment the next morning, but he made coffee and told himself it was okay to be upset, even if it didn’t make sense. It was okay to have intense feelings; he could feel them and he would get over them. </p><p>He didn’t get over it, though, at least not over the course of the next month. Richie would spend the night somewhere other than his home a couple nights per week, always very vague about where he was going or who he was seeing. A ‘friend’ he said once, which seemed unnecessarily euphemistic. Eddie began to resent Richie for clearly thinking Eddie was too fragile to handle the mention of a romantic relationship—which he <em>was</em>, but he didn’t want Richie to know that. On one particular afternoon, Eddie asked Richie if he wanted to get dinner that night and Richie grimaced and said hesitantly that he had ‘plans.’ Eddie interrupted him before Richie got the chance to elaborate on what those plans were, because he was better off not knowing at this point, for the sake of his blood pressure. </p><p>So, Eddie, feeling a bit traumatized by the constant reminders that other people in the world are dating and fucking each other, spends one of his nights alone drinking a bottle of wine by himself and creating a profile on Bumble. It seemed like an appropriate choice in app; the last wedding he went to (Myra’s cousin, two years ago), the bride and groom had met on Bumble, and Eddie had apparently filed away that bit of information in case he ever needed it. He sets up his profile, a couple old but flattering vacation photos, a short no-nonsense bio, and starts swiping, content in the knowledge that on this particular app, women have to message first. It’s a big relief to have that responsibility taken out of his hands. </p><p>The women are varied but Eddie is choosy, making judgments within a half second for most. No for any brightly colored hair or tattoo sleeves or shaved heads or facial piercings—not necessarily because he doesn’t like any of those things, but because he doesn’t think a woman with a septum piercing is going to like <em>him</em> very much. No for anyone with kids simply because that intimidates the hell out of him. No for anyone who is <em>too</em> gorgeous, for pretty much the same reasons.  </p><p>His tentative yes’s are more carefully considered. A couple cute smiley brunettes with approachable jobs. (He wouldn’t know what to do with a freelance software engineer or a ‘podcaster,’ for instance, but he can at least talk shop with an actuary.) The first time he gets a match he nearly has a heart attack. </p><p>Her name is Alison and she messages him first, simply, <i>Hey! How are you?</i> and Eddie spends fifteen minutes trying to figure out how to reply. Eventually he sends back, <i>I’m good! How are you?</i> which didn’t require quite that much workshopping, but the conversation gets a little easier from there as they get into a back and forth about work and about LA since Eddie’s profile declared him new to the area. </p><p>This is how Eddie ends up on a Saturday afternoon coffee date despite the fact that he is truly not ready to date again, nor does he really want to, but it feels like something he <em>should</em> do. </p><p>He told Richie that morning that he had a date, and there was something intensely satisfying about that. Richie glanced up from his phone, bewildered. He was sitting at the kitchen table with one leg resting on it, his pajama pants loose and falling away to expose a hairy ankle. His hair looked soft and slept on, his face rougher with stubble than usual. </p><p>“With who?” Richie had demanded. </p><p>Eddie chuckled a little at his intensity, said, “Just someone I met online. I know it’s probably too soon but…”</p><p>“No, no, no,” Richie said quickly. He took his foot down off the table and turned to face him. “If you want to, that’s great. That’s really great.” </p><p>“Thanks,” Eddie said. “Yeah… Thanks.” </p><p>At the coffeeshop—it’s called Gingko and has an eclectic mix of furniture and a piano in one corner—Eddie orders a decaf Americano for himself, which is appropriately self-punishing for the occasion, although that may not be how he consciously processes the decision, and pays for Alison’s latte. </p><p>She’s a couple inches shorter and a few years younger than Eddie, and wears a big cozy-looking scarf and her hair in a pleasingly messy bun. They awkwardly negotiate a greeting hug when they spot each other inside. It’s busy inside, other people on dates plus students and young professionals claiming entire tables for themselves and their Macbooks. They find a square table for two in the middle of the room, kind of busy and exposed and loud, but they had no better options. </p><p>The two of them had already covered a lot of work related stuff, as well as the fact of Eddie’s ongoing divorce, over messaging, so now Alison keeps the conversation more casual. </p><p>As Eddie begins to answer her questions and volunteer information to keep the conversation going, he falls into a pattern that he doesn’t notice right away. He keeps bringing up Richie. Not by name at first, for a while it’s just, <i>Oh, yeah, I saw that movie with my friend</i>, and, <i>My friend, the one I’m staying with, that’s his favorite restaurant, so I’ve been there</i>, and, <i>I’m not really into podcasts but my friend keeps trying to get me to start one with him</i>. </p><p>After a while, it becomes easier to just name him. Alison asks where Eddie is from, and he says, “Maine. Derry, it’s a small town near Bangor. I actually– my friend, the one I’m staying with, his name is Richie, by the way, we grew up together.” </p><p>“Oh, really?” Alison asks. She seems surprised. “I didn’t know that. You two must be really close.”</p><p>“We are,” Eddie says, a relieved smile stretching across his face, that warm comfortable feeling he always gets when he walks into the living room and sees Richie there lounging on the couch or when his phone buzzes and he checks it to find a message from Richie. “We didn’t actually see each other for a really long time—almost thirty years—but we reconnected recently—a few months ago—and it’s been really great to have him back in my life.”</p><p>Alison smiles a little and says, “If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were in love with him.” </p><p>Eddie’s brain comes screeching to a halt. The espresso machine screams behind him, but the sound is distant, as is the murky hum of other conversations, as if Eddie’s put his head underwater. </p><p>He blinks, shakes his head to try to restart it.</p><p>“Oh, why do you–?” Eddie laughs nervously, twisting his hands together in his lap. “Ah, okay, I guess I’ve been talking about him a lot.” </p><p>“Yeah, just a little,” Alison says, hiding her smile behind the large ceramic cup as she takes another sip of her coffee. </p><p>Eddie tries to explain, stammering a little before he manages, “He’s an important person to me right now…” </p><p>"You don’t have to– Sorry.” Alison puts her mug back on its saucer; it lands with a clink that makes Eddie flinch. “I’m teasing you. It’s sweet.” She gives him a regretful, sympathetic look as she reaches to touch his wrist. Eddie feels a weird urge to snatch his hand away. His pulse pounds in a way that he doesn’t think is necessarily a good reaction to being touched. He doesn’t think he wants to be touched by her, but it’s so hard to tell. </p><p>They talk for another forty minutes and Eddie doesn’t mention Richie or his ‘friend’ again. While Alison talks about her own history—she’s from Tacoma, came for college at Occidental and never left—Eddie smiles evenly at her and studies her face, trying to ascertain whether he could ever feel attracted to her. Maybe, if he invested enough, really got to know her, he could feel some kind of spark from meeting her warm brown eyes. </p><p>But honestly that seems like an exhausting amount of work. </p><p>So, when they part ways after no more than an hour and a half in each other’s presence, Eddie says he had a nice time and she says the same but neither of them make any attempt toward setting up another date. </p><p>Eddie feels relieved to be alone by the time he gets back to his car and closes the door behind him. As nice as it is to be alone, he feels even better when he gets back home—or, to Richie’s place, rather—and finds that Richie is there, engaged in some kind of organizational task, sitting on the living room floor with DVDs and books stacked all around him, the TV humming in the background. </p><p>“Hey,” Richie says, glancing up at him as Eddie walks in and flops onto the couch. “How’d it… go?” </p><p>Eddie covers his face with his hands, an unnecessarily dramatic reaction that only gets Richie asking more followup questions. </p><p>“Oh boy, that bad? What happened? Did she propose?”</p><p>“No, no.” Eddie laughs a little and drags his hands down so he can peer over at Richie. “Just… boring. No, uh… chemistry? I guess.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah,” Richie says, furrowing his brow. “That’s like– the expected outcome for this kind of thing. But I guess it’s been a while for you.” </p><p>Eddie hums, watching Richie as he returns to sorting through the contents of his bookshelf. Now Eddie realizes, he’s <em>dusting</em> his books before placing them back on the shelf, neatly with the spines aligned. This is so charming to Eddie that he feels, inexplicably and embarrassingly, his tear ducts start to burn. He pinches his own nose because honestly what the fuck. </p><p>Eddie could say, <i>Yeah, it wasn’t just an awkward blind date. I talked about you so much that she accused me of being in love with you.</i></p><p>Richie’d probably think that’s pretty funny, maybe even standup material, but the thought makes him seize up in anxiety, so he doesn’t say it. </p><p>Instead when he opens his mouth the words that come out are, “Who are you dating? Is she, like… famous?” </p><p>Richie’s head snaps up to look at Eddie so quickly it probably hurts his neck. As Richie stares at him, Eddie realizes that while he had a lot of internal context for asking that question, Richie has been privy to exactly none of it, so it was a really fucking weird thing to say. </p><p>But what can he say now? <i>I’ve been so fixated on the idea that you’re dating someone that it led me to go on a date myself which doesn’t really make any sense, and I’m also sort of mad that you’re not being honest with me because I know you’re seeing someone and it’s not a big deal so just tell me?</i> Yeah, no. Eddie’s not going to dig this grave any deeper. </p><p>Richie chuckles a little, when he recovers from the initial shock. He runs a hand through his own hair, leaning back where he sits cross-legged on the floor. Eddie’s eyes fall on Richie’s raised arm, his tricep exposed where his t-shirt sleeve rides up. </p><p>“Um,” Richie says, seeming flustered, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Eddie, so. I meant to tell you this already, or I didn’t really mean to do it like this, but I’m… gay?” </p><p>For the second time that day, Eddie’s brain seems to dissolve into white noise, static. </p><p>Richie’s still talking, one hand in his hair as he stares up at the ceiling. His hand slides down to tug at the hair at the nape of his neck, his arm splayed out, bicep bulged. Eddie can’t look away. Richie’s saying, “So, yeah, I am seeing someone but it’s a man and he’s– you know, to answer your question, though, I wouldn’t say he’s <em>not</em> famous, but he probably wouldn’t say he <em>is</em> famous– I’ve worked with him, but he’s a writer so you know, he has a name but he doesn’t have a face– like he has a Wikipedia page but there are no pictures, you know what I mean? That’s the level we’re talking about. Anyway, I was meaning to tell you, like I wasn’t just waiting to get caught or whatever, it just never seemed like the right time, I guess?”</p><p>Eddie can hear a flatline tone inside of his own head. He swallows hard and Richie finally looks at him, dropping his eyes down, and his hand falls back into his lap so that his thick upper arm is no longer on display. </p><p>“Oh,” Eddie says eloquently, after a beat. “Okay, no, yeah, no, I just– Sorry. Thanks for telling me. Sorry I asked, I don’t know why– It’s none of my business.” </p><p>Richie nods slowly. Eddie’s face is burning, his heart pounding. </p><p>Richie says, “It’s fine. I’m kinda glad you asked, actually. I didn’t meant to, like, keep it from you, but…” He sighs, blowing a breath out through his lips. “Yeah, I dunno.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Eddie says, nodding. “I’m glad you told me.” </p><p>“Cool.” Richie shoots him an awkward smile and returns to his dusting-and-organizing task. </p><p>Eddie watches him work for a moment, his downturned eyes behind his glasses lenses, eyelashes brushing his cheeks. His slightly parted lips, and tongue that darts out every now and then to wet them. The square hinge of his jaw that tenses when he swallows. The dark neat patch of his sideburns, trimmed close and framing his small ears, with their peach-fuzzed lobes, the slightly pointed tops covered by the flop of his curls. Eddie wants to tuck his hair behind his ears, wants to rest his fingers on his jaw to feel how it moves when he swallows. </p><p>“Do you, um…” Eddie’s voice catches in his throat, thick and wet. He coughs and starts again. “Dinner tonight?” </p><p>Richie clicks his tongue. “Sorry, I have plans with Scott– that’s his name, the guy, Scott. Sorry. Tomorrow though?” </p><p>“Yeah, tomorrow,” Eddie agrees, an absent spark of anger lighting up his chest. </p><p> </p><p>After Richie leaves, Eddie makes dinner, opens another bottle of wine, and uninstalls Bumble. He can see that he has notifications for new messages, other women he had matched with, but the thought of reading them has him on the verge of a panic attack. Eddie opens an incognito browser window on his phone and googles <i>Scott writer LA, Scott Richie Tozier, Scott writer Wikipedia</i>, and doesn’t find anything helpful. </p><p>He contemplates going through each of the 509 accounts Richie follows on twitter to see if he can find a Scott, but this seems insane even by his standards so he does not make it past the first thirty or so. </p><p>It’s not lost on Eddie that he’s reacting too strongly to this, and it’s harder to rationalize this time. </p><p>
  <i>If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were in love with him.</i>
</p><p>He’s been thinking about <em>that</em> a lot, despite how hard he’s trying not to. She said it was just a joke, anyway. Hopefully Eddie isn’t that fucking transparent. She’d only spoken to him for an hour by the time she said that. </p><p>God, <em>is</em> he in love with Richie? Is that why the thought of him going on dates—and now, especially, dates with a <em>man</em>—makes him break into a cold sweat? Is he jealous not only of the abstract concept of romance but jealous that someone else gets to have that with Richie, specifically? </p><p>The way his body reacts to that thought is proof enough; it feels like something stabs his ribcage from the inside. </p><p>Well, fuck. </p><p>Eddie drinks some more wine and some more, until he finishes the bottle, and then he gets up from the couch and goes down the hallway to push open the door to Richie’s bedroom. He’s only been in here one or twice since he moved in, but Richie keeps the door open during the day and Eddie always glances in when he passes. Richie keeps it neat and sparsely decorated, but the bed isn’t made, twisted sheets and blankets bundled at the foot of the bed. </p><p>Eddie steps inside and slowly lies down on the bed. </p><p>It’s a really ridiculous and weird and creepy and pathetic thing to do, and he’s painfully aware of that, even through his foggy, dry-mouthed wine haze. He doesn’t do anything for a few minutes, just lies there, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. Somehow, it calms him down—a lot—to lie here, where Richie sleeps most nights. His breathing deepens and slows, his hands that rest folded over his stomach rise and fall. The entire room smells like Richie, a faint warm earthy scent that he didn’t even realize he knew so well. </p><p>He twists over to reach for the bedside table—occupied by a lamp, a box of kleenex, and a couple dusty half-full glasses of water—and pulls open the drawer. There’s a loose selection of condoms inside, which is what Eddie expected (hoped?) to see but it still makes him nauseously turned on to visualize Richie reaching over into this drawer to grab a packet, ripping it open, rolling it on. </p><p>Eddie gets up and goes to his own bedroom—first smoothing out the creases on the sheets to cover his tracks—because one line he will not cross is jerking off in Richie’s bed. </p><p> </p><p>Richie comes home mid-morning on Sunday. He brings with him a couple coffees and bagels from Eddie’s favorite place now that he’s eating gluten again. To think of the years he wasted while living in New York without a single bagel. </p><p>Eddie gladly accepts and eats with him at the kitchen table, but he has a hard time looking Richie in the eye after he spent the previous night teasing himself to an orgasm, taking more time with it than he usually would and touching himself in ways he usually wouldn’t so he could pretend it was Richie’s hand on him instead of his own. </p><p>Richie seems a little tired, wearing the same rumpled clothes he left in last night, as if Eddie needed additional reminders. Eddie feels more than a little hungover and ashamed of himself, but the coffee and bagels help with both. </p><p>“I’m all yours today, Eds,” Richie tells him, once he’s finished his bagel and switched to eating the everything-toppings left on his plate, sticking the poppyseeds and burnt garlic bits to his finger and then bringing it to his mouth. Eddie can’t help but track the motion with his eyes, following from the plate to Richie’s lips and back again. “What d’you wanna do?” </p><p>“Oh, uh, I– I dunno,” Eddie stammers. “I didn’t really– um. I wanted to say, too, it’s okay if you ever want to have Scott stay over here? Like, you don’t always have to go…” Eddie trails off, his pulse pounding in his ears. </p><p>Richie glances up at him, eyes wide. The stubble on his face has progressed almost to a beard, to the point where it looks like it might be soft instead of just prickly. Eddie wants to find out, wants to feel it beneath his fingers and against his lips and on his chest and thighs. </p><p>(This is fucking unbearable. He probably shouldn’t have jerked off thinking about Richie last night.)</p><p>“Oh… Yeah.” Richie nods a few times and rubs his hand over his face. Eddie can hear the friction from his beard. “Thanks. I guess now that you know… Um, yeah, I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” </p><p>“I wouldn’t be uncomfortable,” Eddie lies. </p><p>“Yeah, I know,” Richie says quickly. “Okay. Thanks.” </p><p> </p><p>There was a time a few weeks back that, after he got off a particularly bad call with Myra, Eddie slumped back into the living room to find Richie lying on the couch. Eddie looked at him and felt like he could cry from relief, just seeing his face, and he wanted to curl up in his arms or lay his head in his lap. He didn’t. Instead he slinked across the room to sit in the armchair. Richie’s eyes followed him, looking up over the top of his cell phone, warily sympathetic, always keeping a bit of distance but attentive. </p><p>“How was it?” Richie asked him gently, after Eddie sat down and pulled his feet up onto the chair, knees hugged to his chest. </p><p>“Fucking awful,” Eddie answered honestly. </p><p>Richie gave him a look, eyebrows knit together, frowning. “I’m sorry, Eds. Wanna talk about it?”</p><p>“Not really,” Eddie said, mostly because just being in Richie’s presence made him feel better, made the bad memories and the tension begin to fade. </p><p>He probably should have known then. Looking back, it’s obvious. </p><p> </p><p>Richie does take Eddie up on his offer and invites Scott over later that week. Eddie, the architect of his own demise, is determined to just make it through this, suffering silently and nobly to prove to himself that he can handle it. Eddie doesn’t know what he expected Scott to look like, but… not this. He’s tall, about the same height as Richie, but skinny, sort of alarmingly skinny for a grown man, in fact. He wears large stylish glasses—stylish in the way that huge wire frames that were nerdy when Eddie was a kid are now in fashion again—and has thin hair cut close to his head. </p><p>Richie introduces Eddie as his ‘old friend’ which is probably pretty nice, but leaves Eddie feeling shitty. Richie introduces Scott as, ‘Uh… This is… Scott.’ He doesn’t say ‘boyfriend’ or anything and Eddie can’t really decide how to read that. The two of them are going to watch a movie and Richie invites Eddie to join them, but he declines, retreating to his own bedroom. </p><p>He spends the rest of the night holed up in his room, only leaving at one point to use the bathroom and grab something to eat from the kitchen. When he passes the living room, he catches a glimpse of the two of them on the couch, Richie with his arm around Scott’s shoulder, looking at something on his phone. Eddie grabs a glass of water and a tube of Pringles and retreats back to his bedroom, hearing Richie’s soft laughter and the murmur of his voice at his back. </p><p>Around ten the two of them retire to Richie’s bedroom, which shares a wall with Eddie’s. Eddie tries not to be a massive fucking creep about it, but he can hear plenty, lying in his own bed. It’s not anything incriminating, just their whispered conversations and the rustling and creaking as they settle into bed together. It doesn’t really matter, though, that Eddie doesn’t hear anything especially evocative. He still strains his ears to pick up on any whispered words or the sounds of the mattress shifting, and every noise goes right to his dick. Anything to do with Richie these days seems to have a direct line to Eddie’s libido. </p><p>He does jerk off that night, but he does so as quietly as he can, wiggling out of his pajamas pants and stroking himself under the tent of his blankets, held up by his bent knees. He keeps his breath shallow and doesn’t move around too much, soon coming with no more than a gasp into his fist. </p><p>This is a real problem now. Not that it wasn’t before, but emotionally Eddie doesn’t know how long he can handle living in an apartment with Richie and jerking off while Richie sleeps with someone else. That’s probably pretty fucked up. </p><p>In the silence following his orgasm, Eddie can still hear, through his wall, the two of them talking, in a hushed whisper, and the bed creaking and sheets rustling. He can’t make out any specific words but it’s enough to make him feel sick to his stomach. Finally everything goes quiet on the other side of the wall, and Eddie keeps listening until he falls asleep. </p><p> </p><p>In the morning, when Eddie gathers the courage to leave his bedroom, he finds Richie alone at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and looking at his phone. “Morning,” Richie greets him neutrally. </p><p>“Morning.” Eddie pours himself a cup of coffee and slides into the chair beside Richie. He doesn’t hear the shower running in the bathroom or anything but he asks anyway: “Is Scott…?”</p><p>“He left,” Richie supplies. He adjusts his grip on his coffee mug, not meeting Eddie’s eye. “A little while ago.” </p><p>Eddie nods. “Okay.” </p><p>“We broke up,” Richie blurts. “Just… FYI.” He shrugs forlornly and takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes fixed on the middle-distance over Eddie’s shoulder.</p><p>“Oh.” Eddie fights to keep his expression steady, to not let too much surprise or, god forbid, relief bleed into it. “I’m sorry. What happened?” </p><p>"It was my decision,” Richie says quickly. “He’s a really great guy but I just felt like I couldn’t… be what he deserves? You know? Like, I’m not really… in a place where I can invest like that.”</p><p>Without thinking, Eddie says, “I don’t want to date anymore."</p><p>Richie looks at him, really looks at him for the first time so far this morning, blinking, clearly not following. </p><p>“I talked about you so much on my date the other day that she thought I was in love with you,” Eddie says all in a rush. “I think I’m gay.”</p><p>Richie nods slowly, staring at Eddie, his hand clenched around his coffee mug. “Eds,” he says, hesitantly. </p><p>“I just wanted to tell you,” Eddie interrupts, his head starting to pound from the confession. “It was really… driving me crazy, knowing you were with him. I wanted to tell you.” </p><p>Eddie looks back at his own mug, the red ceramic he’s clutching in his hand, hot around the bottom. </p><p>“Eddie, I don’t…” Richie’s voice breaks. He holds his temples, looking at the floor. They’re both still in their pajamas, t-shirts and shorts, unwashed hair. It’s barely 8am. “What you’re saying… I broke up with him because of you, because I’m still… I shouldn’t be with someone else when I still feel…”</p><p>Eddie’s heart thunders in his chest. “How do you feel?”</p><p>Richie looks at him, and he looks heartbroken. As way of answer, he says Eddie’s name with all the weight and emotion that Eddie needs to hear to be sure, so he lunges forward and kisses him before he says anything else. </p><p>It’s clumsy at first, Eddie stooped over in front of Richie, resting one hand on the edge of the table and the other on his shoulder. Richie tastes like coffee, and his beard is half-scratchy half-soft against Eddie’s chin and upper lip. Richie’s hand twitches, brushing against Eddie’s knee, holding onto the fabric of his sweatpants with two fingers. </p><p>Eddie pulls back on a ragged inhale and rests his forehead against Richie’s to catch his breath. He’s shaking a little, his heart beating so fast he feels lightheaded. Richie seems in a similar state; he clutches Eddie’s hand to his shoulder, a hot vice-tight grip around his wrist, and he tilts his face up once, then twice, to press a kiss to Eddie’s lips, inhaling deeply through his nose each time. </p><p>Slowly, Eddie falls away from him to sit back in his chair, the distance giving him a clearer perspective on Richie’s face, the chance to read his reaction. He looks dazed, blinking at Eddie owlishly from behind his glasses. </p><p>“I know it’s a little soon,” Eddie says, unable to bear the silence any longer. “You <em>just</em> broke up. I was just so… jealous.” </p><p>Richie’s mouth twitches and he laughs a little, clearly overwhelmed. “Eddie, I broke up with him because I was still hung up on <em>you</em>. You understand that, right? Things were getting serious, on his end anyway, and it wouldn’t have been fair to…”</p><p>Richie trails off while Eddie nods. “Oh, okay,” he says carefully. “Do you have to go to work?” </p><p>Richie’s smile grows a little. “I don’t have to go anywhere for, like, two hours.” </p><p>“Okay.” Eddie leans forward to kiss him again and Richie meets him halfway, his hand flying up to cradle Eddie’s jaw, the pads of fingers walking around behind Eddie’s ear and into his hair while his tongue works its way into Eddie’s open mouth. Eddie holds onto Richie’s face with both hands, rubbing over the spread of his beard with his thumbs and ruffling into his curls with his fingers. “I wanted to,” Eddie manages between kisses and breaths, “touch your beard.” </p><p>“I wanted to touch you,” Richie says, his voice a low murmur, as his hands spread flat down Eddie’s back, making him shiver, “everywhere.” </p><p>From there, they stand up and stumble toward Richie’s bedroom, falling onto the sheets together. </p><p>Eddie lays out on his back on the bed, pulse pounding at the fantasy-come-to-life image of Richie crawling over him, straddling his hips. Richie leans down to kiss him and Eddie clutches at his shoulder and back, hands roaming over the broad expanse of him until he finds the hem of his soft, worn t-shirt and slips them inside, palms pressing into hot skin, nails dragging. He pulls up Richie’s shirt far enough that Richie takes the hint and pulls back to strip it off, yanking it over his head in a smooth one-armed move that has Eddie’s dick twitching heavily in his pants. </p><p>Like a moth to flame, and operating with just about as much brainpower, Eddie sits up and puts his mouth to Richie’s now-exposed chest. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but Richie’s breath hitches all the same, clutching at Eddie’s narrow shoulders and at the back of his head. Eddie mouths at Richie’s collarbone and rubs over a nipple with light fingertips, circling it, brushing over the coarse hairs that surround it, and pressing into the plush layer of skin and fat. </p><p>Richie shudders, his breath stuttering and hips twitching forward, where he’s resting in Eddie’s lap. “Can you… kiss my neck?” he asks in a whisper, still holding onto Eddie’s back, his other hand twisted into his hair. </p><p>Eddie wordlessly lifts his head to Richie’s neck, which is conveniently level with his face in their current position, and kisses him where his coarse trimmed beard fades into shaved stubble and then smooth tender skin. He can hear every reaction in the rhythm of Richie’s breathing, and feel it in the tension of his fingers as they tighten in his hair. When Eddie gets brave enough to scrape his teeth over Richie’s skin, Richie responds with a quiet moan that leaves Eddie so suddenly, devastatingly turned on that it feels like free fall. </p><p>“You like that?” Eddie asks, kissing the reddened wet skin and still spinning out from the new knowledge of what Richie <em>likes</em>, and being able to give it to him. </p><p>Richie nods. “Yeah, I really do.” Richie catches Eddie’s jaw in his big warm palm and tilts his face up, hunching down a bit to kiss the breath right out of Eddie’s mouth. When he comes up for air it’s only to tug at the hem of Eddie’s own shirt until he pulls it off over his head. </p><p>Richie kisses him as he presses him back down flat to the mattress, crowding in on top of him again. </p><p>“You haven’t been with a guy before, right?” Richie asks, his hands trailing down Eddie’s naked sides where he feels sensitive and shivery. </p><p>“No,” Eddie answers, too far gone to feel self-conscious about his lack of experience. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of Richie’s sweats, not pulling them down yet but rubbing over the elastic material of his boxer-briefs. </p><p>“I wanna make you feel so good,” Richie says, and with that he tugs down on Eddie’s pajama bottoms, taking his briefs down at the same time, as Eddie lifts his hips and wiggles to help. </p><p>Eddie’s already achingly hard and leaking precome in a steady stream by the time Richie gets a hand around him. His hips jerk up and he grips Richie’s forearms, trying to ground himself. Distantly he registers some embarrassment about how visibly worked up he is, and so soon, too, barely minutes after they first fell into bed. He’s sloppy in Richie’s hand, and he can hear the slick slide as he picks up the pace. </p><p>“I think I’m a little… pent-up,” Eddie explains with a weak laugh. He’s still squirming back into the mattress, toes curled in tension. “Sorry.”</p><p>Richie, looming over him, mouths at his neck and chest, gliding his hand over him. “This is so hot, are you kidding? Do you always get this wet?” </p><p>“Not always,” Eddie says. “But I have recently, I’ve been thinking about you a lot, when I… when I touch myself, and you always make me so–”</p><p>Richie bites off the beginning of a groan, muffled below Eddie’s collarbone. Then in a sudden flurry of motion, he sits back and slips his own sweatpants and underwear down around his thighs. Eddie catches a glimpse of Richie’s cock, reddened and hanging heavy between his hairy thighs, before Richie slides back between Eddie’s legs to slot them together.</p><p>“Is this okay?” Richie asks as he begins to move in short staccato thrusts, holding both of them together in one hand, already slick with Eddie’s precome. </p><p>Eddie sighs, “Yes,” and grips Richie’s arms, lifting his legs to wrap around Richie’s waist, holding him close. </p><p>Visually, it’s like Richie’s fucking him, looming above him, rocking forward. It feels like it, too, how Eddie would want it to feel, anyway, Richie’s breath hot on the side of his face, his weight crushing down, his hipbones colliding with Eddie’s bruise-tender thighs over and over. Richie smells so much like himself, the salt and sweat-funk, not yet showered this morning to wash it away. </p><p>“Why do you smell so good?” Eddie mutters, twisting the fingers of one hand into Richie’s hair. It’s a little greasy around the crown of his head.</p><p>Richie laughs a little. “I smell good? Like this?” </p><p>“Yes,” Eddie insists, tugging on Richie’s hair to coax another breathy moan from him.</p><p>“Well, you taste good,” Richie says, and to prove it, licks a stripe across Eddie’s shoulder. </p><p>The hot drag of Richie’s cock against his own and the not-quite-enough pressure of Richie’s hand are starting to drive Eddie crazy, but it’s the noises Richie starts to make, wounded little whimpers into the crook of his neck, that bring Eddie hurtling to the edge. He brings his hand into the damp heat between their bodies to finish himself off with a few short firm strokes, gasping and bucking up against Richie’s body. </p><p>Richie kisses Eddie’s lax mouth as he comes, whispering, low but intense, “Yeah, fuck, just like that, wanna see you like this every day.” </p><p>While Eddie lies there, boneless and sinking into the mattress, Richie kneels over him and starts jacking himself in earnest. He must have been as close as Eddie because it only takes a few quick strokes before his hips piston forward and he comes with a broken groan over Eddie’s stomach and his own still half-hard cock. </p><p>On the comedown, Richie falls forward on his hands to press a kiss to Eddie’s sweaty forward, then he collapses next to him, jostling the mattress as his weight settles in. </p><p>Eddie breathes deeply, chest rising as his lungs expand. He’s a total mess right now, he realizes, the sheets sticking to his sweaty back and ass, his stomach and groin covered in come. He’s probably never been happier. </p><p>Richie moves next to him, shifting around until his arm falls comfortably intertwined with Eddie’s. His fingers move over his wrist and the back of his hand until Eddie twists his hand to hold Richie’s. </p><p>Richie sighs, deep and slow, like he’s deflating. “I wish I could go back to sleep now.” </p><p>Eddie turns his head to look first at the nightstand before remembering there’s no alarm clock there to check the time and then back to Richie.</p><p>“You could probably power nap for twenty minutes,” Eddie tells him, and brushes his lips to his shoulder. “I’ll wake you up.”</p><p>Richie hums and rolls onto his side to face Eddie, knocking his bent knees against his thighs. “This isn’t weird, right? It’s not, like… too soon? You’re still not even divorced.”</p><p>“You got out of a relationship earlier this morning,” Eddie points out, cracking a smile. “Is <em>that</em> weird?” </p><p>“It was last night, technically,” Richie corrects, grinning guiltily back at him. “It was just… late, already. So he stayed over.”</p><p>“Did you tell him it was because of me?” Eddie asks quietly, not sure which answer he’d prefer.</p><p>“No.” Richie’s hair brushes against the pillow as he shakes his head. “I didn’t name you or anything. I didn’t even say there was someone else, but… I’m sure I wasn’t that subtle.” He rolls his eyes a little, the irritation self-directed. Then he focuses his gaze on Eddie, sharp and attentive and full of humor again. “Wait, you said something earlier– your date thought you were in love with me? Do you want to maybe circle back around to that for a moment?” </p><p>They’re both laughing now, the mattress shaking beneath them. Eddie’s face is hot, but he doesn’t feel quite so embarrassed to confess this anymore. It’s a pretty funny story. But at the moment, his stomach feels tacky with drying come, pulling uncomfortably at his body hair, so he sits up and says, “Can I tell you in the shower?”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tumblr: <a href="https://skeilig.tumblr.com/">skeilig</a><br/>twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/skeilig_">skeilig_</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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